All to Himself

When George got to his apartment complex's laundry room that morning he felt greedy. The place was empty, not a machine in use or a person in sight. He did not have that much laundry, but something in him did not want anyone else to be able to use the machines.

He ran around impulsively pumping quarters into all the washers and scattering his one load of laundry amongst all the machines. Soon the room was filled with a cacophony of churning and whirling.

He sat down in a plastic chair in the waiting area and idly kicked at the children's toys on the floor. An elderly man came in with an armload of dirty clothes. The man wore an old golf shirt. George hated golf.

The old man looked around and saw all the machines running and then left in disgust. "Yes!" thought George as he watched him go. "They are all mine."

Moments later a young woman came in with two small children. Immediately he pitied her because of her old tattered clothes and the hollow malnourished faces of her kids. He waited anxiously for her to turn and go. She glanced at him. Then back at all the running machines. She paused to wipe the sweat from her brow, sighed and hefted up her laundry before leaving without a word.

Unfazed, George leaned forward and rested his elbow on his knee, hand under his chin. Squinting out into the sunlight shimmering through the dirty glass of the front door. It as turning into a really hot day. His throat was dry and parched. He glanced over at the Coke machine for relief and then suddenly realized he had no more change.